I love my Prada handbag.
I love the bright turquoise, blue colour.
I love the chic lines, gold links and poppers.
I love the pretty, colourful lining.
I love the smell of the leather.
I love the way it makes me feel when I use it.
I love the memory of being given it, the surprise and excitement of the big white bag with black writing.
I love how I put it on my Christmas wish list as a joke, alongside the pyjamas and slippers that would have made me just as happy.
I love the fact that my husband had seen me admiring them in Galleries Lafayette.
I love that every time I use it, I am reminded of that beautiful, romantic anniversary trip to Paris.
I love that it is so precious that it is kept safe in its dust bag on the top shelf, brought out for special occasions.
I love that it was given in love and with love and that it reminds me of that love.
Recently, a comment left me feeling guilty, even bad for owning one. For having anything material and for having the life and experiences that I am grateful daily for.
A Prada handbag is a luxury, a material object. As are many things.
It is also a symbol and reflection of love, although I didn’t need it to feel loved.
It is also a symbol and reflection of hardwork, long hours, commitment to both career and family life, although I didn’t need it to prove that.
I love my Prada handbag. I am guilt free. I am no Prada wearing Devil. I am a good person.